100 words on...

Friday, May 04, 2007

It's that special feeling. The one that wakes you in the middle of the night, the feeling that sets you sweating, that reminds you yet again of how the essence of your humanity is the body, and not any thoughts

Now the thoughts simply won't come clear through the shaking and spasms.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

After twenty-five we don't heal as quickly. Yet it's not really noticable until thirty-five or so. A slice of a finger, a scab on the knee: they used to be gone in a few days or a week, tops, but after thirty-five - damn, it could be a month before the scarring is gone.

The joints and muscles are suddenly slow healing too.

When we're young we get in the habit of expecting damage to disappear quickly. We hurt ourselves more than necessary, and rest less than we should.

Actions - all of them - are feelings. Every action embodies aspects of us both.

The scent of the elbow, the taste of hair, the sight of any bend or bulge, the curl of the ear, the color of the skin between the toes. The sound of the breath, the limbs moving, the knuckles cracking.

List each nerve and sinew.

How to express a range of feeling, engendered by the other's presence, in words that aren't hackneyed.

When you encounter such a passion it's not much like the passion described in a resumé. Rather, it's anti-social. Following it centers and fills and consumes. The life of a person held in passion's gtip appears arid to those who aren't.

We accecpt some overwhelming forces such as love or art. Yet passions we can't share either personally or as part of the cultural norm leave us befuddled, and pitying or contemptuous of, the sufferer.